


Woodsong

by dragonsong (NekoAisu)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blind Character, Fic Exchange, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Gift Fic, Introspection, Magical Handwavey Sight Hacks, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24636430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/dragonsong
Summary: Wrendia is stubborn about ensuring Y’shtola vacates her corner at least once a day. "It is not good for your back," she reminds.(Y’shtola would like to call dzoshite on that, by the way. Her posture is not as bad as Matoya's.)
Relationships: Y'shtola Rhul & Original Character(s), Y'shtola Rhul & the Night's Blessed
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Woodsong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xygdrasil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xygdrasil/gifts).



> A fic for my exchange with Xygxag! 
> 
> Thank you so much for working with me and letting me write this fic for you! I hope you enjoy it aah ;;w;; <3

Y'shtola has grown used to being an outlander. The people of the First are trusting nearly to fault─not at all like many of those she’s met on the Source─but it comes hand-in-hand with a deep-seated tiredness. They smile and welcome her into their homes, offer food and shelter to who they assume is a displaced Mystel likely come from yet another decimated village, and do not mind when she uses her catch-all reply to their questions as to her origins and purpose. 

“What brings a new face to our village?”

“Travelling. It won’t be overlong before I depart.”

They always nod and continue on with their conversation with minimal prodding. She’s long since learned that keeping her eyes closed or covered draws less attention than Seeing. Same goes for her sharp tongue and boundless knowledge. There are few on the First so well learned. Should she become a target, it would only make her easier to track. 

It’s due to her newfound caution that she finds herself staying the night in a small encampment outside the Rak’tika Greatwood. The people whose fire she sits before are travel-worn and fraying at the edges. She sees signs of illness among them and asks after their health, careful about infusing their foodstuffs with her conjury, and learns of the forest being more of a haven than aught else but the Crystarium. There are Sin Eaters and dangerous fauna, but it’s nothing in comparison to the mess about Eulmore and along rarely travelled paths. 

It’s the lesser of many evils. 

She sleeps lightly, as is her wont, and rises before the rest of the camp. On her way out, she leaves a sheaf of medicine on top of the apothecary's bag. She is firmly of the mind they need it more than she does or ever will. It is easy enough to make use of her talents and concoct some spell or another to heal her scrapes should the need arise. 

The forest beckons with a deep song where wind prompts the leaves to chatter and the boughs to groan. They do not seem to mind a lone wanderer encroaching upon their domain. The canopy blots out much of the Light and leaves only patches of it to irritate her senses. The amount of life within the Greatwood sets its aether circulating not unlike a river. It erodes the sharpness of the corruption and masks it with the smell of rich loam. Her presence is negligible at best. 

A few bells of walking remind Y’shtola of exactly why she hates hiking. There are roots she can’t see, sections of earth that go from hard-packed to muddy, and a veritable collection of all-too-similar landmarks she can only memorize based on how she perceives them. It’s with much relief that she happens upon a settlement before her boots become more mud than leather. 

“Quite rare to see a visitor,” someone calls. “Welcome to Fort Gohn!”

“Thank you,” she replies, dipping her head in the direction the voice had come from. 

There are clusters of aether where sound is loudest─people are standing together and talking in front of stalls and homes. Merchants and soldiery barter for supplies Y’shtola is willing to bet are overpriced─and nobody pays her any further mind than asking if she needs directions back into town. 

Fort Gohn is rather small for a fortification, she finds. It’s a place most pass through on their way in and out of the Greatwood, rather than settle into. She exchanges a handful of Gil for some tea, sitting on the wooden porch out front of the little herbalist’s shop to sip at it. A few people come and go in the time it takes her to finish her cup and she’s not even two steps from leaving when someone comes rushing past babbling about aether sickness. 

“D’you have any herbs for it? My friend is sick and ‘e’s not gettin’ any better,” they tell the herbalist. “I’ll haveta run it back t’ Slitherbough.”

“What manner of trouble has your friend gotten into to be afflicted by such acute sickness?” Y’shtola asks. “‘Tis not common to be aethersick for weeks on end.”

She can hear the visitor’s clothing rustle with their nervous bouncing. Their voice is filled with guilt when they say, “Took a dip near the old temples with me. Somethin’ wasn’t right in the water, see? ‘M fine, but ‘e isn’t.”

The herbalist putters around. Y'shtola returns her cup and waits for some medicine to be procured. The asks questions all the while─things like names and places and loyalties─until she’s sure there is something she can do to assist. 

“I may be able to cure your friend, granted you are at ease with an outlander’s help.”

They agree wholeheartedly (read: loudly) and spare no time in paying for the herbalist’s bitter tincture and skipping town. Y’shtola follows them through the Wood and into a tunnel. She can feel the vaguest hints of others around the bend, but is spared no time to See before she is harried into a cave and to the side of someone whose aether is… stagnating. 

“Oh,” she says. “This is not aether sickness.”

Someone breathes in sharply. “Who is this that delivers such news?”

“She’s, uh… I never caught your name?”

Y’shtola is about to give her name before she remembers the need for safety and secrecy. There is no other whose name she could use so well as her old master’s. “I am Matoya,” she lies, “and your friend has come in contact with Light.”

There is some murmuring and no end to questioning, but in the end, she is invited to stay for a few days while they attend to one of their own. There are many who are discomfited by her and what she says, but others take no issue with her strange speech and magicks. It isn’t long before she has made a space for herself in the corner of a cave. 

She tells herself it will be temporary, that she’ll move on as soon as she’s learned more of the First and its Ronka (and is Ronka like the Source’s Allag? She is wont to find out). There is no harm in assisting her hosts when the opportunity arises. 

She attends the funeral of the man whose fate she foresaw. They tried to realign his aether, to stem the spread of Light where it forced his vital aether to stagnate, but to no avail. For the first time since losing her sight, she wishes she could see even for a moment. She wishes she could pay her respects to those whose souls belong among the stars by taking part in that symbolism, but she simply stands quietly and prays that next time she’ll be able to do more. 

From the day she arrived, her counsel was sought out. Where Quinfort used to avoid her, he has since begun to pore over Ronkan texts and read passages aloud to aid in her research until Valan drags him away to assist with chores. Runar and Wrendia check on her often. Runar is more prone to bringing snacks with him, Wrendia opting for new candles and a stubbornness that sees Y’shtola out of her corner “for her health.”

(Y’shtola would like to call dzoshite on that, by the way.)

Before she realizes it, she’s become one of them. She trades chores with Ingvar every other week so he has time to go over her notes and new spell circles. Harvene helps her sew and dye new robes just in time for Redard’s nameday. They celebrate with spiced cider and hymns around the fire. 

It’s only when her own nameday comes around that it hits her. It’s been  _ months.  _ She wears their clothes, eats with them, cares for them. They call her Master Matoya with no end to affection. The people of Slitherbough are as much her friends and they are her family, now. She doesn’t mind one bit. It is a welcome change.

**Author's Note:**

> i turn around to show you my shirt. it reads in bold, glittery print "y'shtola lovin' brigade"
> 
> hmu on:  
> Twitter [@khirimochi](https://twitter.com/khirimochi) OR [@TheHolyBody (NSFW)](https://twitter.com/TheHolyBody)  
> Tunglr @[Main](https://kiriami.tumblr.com) OR @[FFXIV Imagines](https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com)


End file.
